girl sculptures still stood in the garden.
Dead giveaways, Huggins, she thought, eyeing the sculptures. His wife, Maggie, was one of the most drop-dead beautiful women Erin had ever seen. Her sculptures were equally beautiful.
Erin started to get out then stopped, a thump of fear holding her back. She scanned the area. No cars waiting to run her down.
She cursed. Stupid thought. Whoever had taken a run at her at the prison certainly hadn’t followed her to Ohio.
She walked up the wide front porch, through an elegant wood-and-etched-glass door, and into Huggins’s lair. She stared. As soon as she’d seen the Internet listing for Hilltop House she’d given no thought to the inn itself—only to what the discovery of Huggins with a new identity might mean for Justin. Now, standing in a grand foyer with the smell of sweet, spiced cider flaring her nostrils and the sound of a fire crackling nearby, she felt as if the world had tipped sideways.
Not the home of a vicious murderer at all: It was gorgeous. Twelve-foot ceilings with tiered crown molding and wine-red walls, cherry floors splashed with thick rugs. A wide staircase rose to second and third stories and on the wall of the grand foyer hung a set of beautifully decorated clay masks. Mrs.
Calloway,
Erin thought, and couldn’t help but be impressed by her talent. There were seven of them—all approximately the same size and shape like the classic comedy-tragedy masks, but each adorned like a fabulous Mardi Gras mask, with jewels and feathers and designs all crafted from clay. They were stunni—
Her breath caught: Something moved in the hallway at the top of the stairs. She peered into the dimness only to see a shadow slip out of sight. Huggins? No. Huggins sauntered. This person… skittered.
She rubbed her hands over the goose bumps on her arms and stepped beneath an archway, looking into a large room. Against the far wall sat a sideboard covered with cheeses, crackers, and bunches of grapes, and a tureen of what must be the hot cider she smelled. The tiny glands beneath her tongue came to life and she realized that except for the Snickers bar, she hadn’t eaten since… this morning? Last night? She wasn’t sure.
She went back through the foyer and through an opposite archway. Another rich, spacious room. In the center burned a fire in a double-sided stone fireplace and on the chimney, a hand-painted sign pointed the way to the gift shop. On either side of the fireplace sat a collection of armchairs, footrests, and lamp tables, perfect for cozying up on a cold winter evening.
Two men had done exactly that. One, an older gentleman with an unlit pipe in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other, sported a graying shock of hair and a magazine on his lap. Back issues of
Field & Stream
sat in a stack at his feet. He lifted his glass when he noticed Erin. The other man, a younger version of the same features and body type, set aside a laptop computer and stood. Erin started to say something to him, then noticed his jaw go slack and heard a
click
behind her. She turned, the hairs on her neck standing up.
John Huggins aimed a shotgun at her chest.
CHAPTER
6
E RIN FLINCHED, then the shotgun faded from view and the only thing in the world was the man behind it.
Huggins.
His eyes struck her first—one green and one blue—both pale and piercing and cold. Then the rest of the details filtered in… six feet tall, well-toned for a man of his age. His waist was a few pounds thicker, his temples a touch grayer, the crow’s feet a bit deeper in his skin. But he was the same man.
Dear God, she’d found him.
It’s going to be okay, Justin.
“Misters McCormick,” he said, without moving the shotgun even fractionally, “move out of the room, if you please. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“What the hell?” the older McCormick boomed. “Jack, what are you doing?”
“Move out, Wilson. You too, Evan,” he said. “I’m not the marksman the two of you
Dead giveaways, Huggins, she thought, eyeing the sculptures. His wife, Maggie, was one of the most drop-dead beautiful women Erin had ever seen. Her sculptures were equally beautiful.
Erin started to get out then stopped, a thump of fear holding her back. She scanned the area. No cars waiting to run her down.
She cursed. Stupid thought. Whoever had taken a run at her at the prison certainly hadn’t followed her to Ohio.
She walked up the wide front porch, through an elegant wood-and-etched-glass door, and into Huggins’s lair. She stared. As soon as she’d seen the Internet listing for Hilltop House she’d given no thought to the inn itself—only to what the discovery of Huggins with a new identity might mean for Justin. Now, standing in a grand foyer with the smell of sweet, spiced cider flaring her nostrils and the sound of a fire crackling nearby, she felt as if the world had tipped sideways.
Not the home of a vicious murderer at all: It was gorgeous. Twelve-foot ceilings with tiered crown molding and wine-red walls, cherry floors splashed with thick rugs. A wide staircase rose to second and third stories and on the wall of the grand foyer hung a set of beautifully decorated clay masks. Mrs.
Calloway,
Erin thought, and couldn’t help but be impressed by her talent. There were seven of them—all approximately the same size and shape like the classic comedy-tragedy masks, but each adorned like a fabulous Mardi Gras mask, with jewels and feathers and designs all crafted from clay. They were stunni—
Her breath caught: Something moved in the hallway at the top of the stairs. She peered into the dimness only to see a shadow slip out of sight. Huggins? No. Huggins sauntered. This person… skittered.
She rubbed her hands over the goose bumps on her arms and stepped beneath an archway, looking into a large room. Against the far wall sat a sideboard covered with cheeses, crackers, and bunches of grapes, and a tureen of what must be the hot cider she smelled. The tiny glands beneath her tongue came to life and she realized that except for the Snickers bar, she hadn’t eaten since… this morning? Last night? She wasn’t sure.
She went back through the foyer and through an opposite archway. Another rich, spacious room. In the center burned a fire in a double-sided stone fireplace and on the chimney, a hand-painted sign pointed the way to the gift shop. On either side of the fireplace sat a collection of armchairs, footrests, and lamp tables, perfect for cozying up on a cold winter evening.
Two men had done exactly that. One, an older gentleman with an unlit pipe in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other, sported a graying shock of hair and a magazine on his lap. Back issues of
Field & Stream
sat in a stack at his feet. He lifted his glass when he noticed Erin. The other man, a younger version of the same features and body type, set aside a laptop computer and stood. Erin started to say something to him, then noticed his jaw go slack and heard a
click
behind her. She turned, the hairs on her neck standing up.
John Huggins aimed a shotgun at her chest.
CHAPTER
6
E RIN FLINCHED, then the shotgun faded from view and the only thing in the world was the man behind it.
Huggins.
His eyes struck her first—one green and one blue—both pale and piercing and cold. Then the rest of the details filtered in… six feet tall, well-toned for a man of his age. His waist was a few pounds thicker, his temples a touch grayer, the crow’s feet a bit deeper in his skin. But he was the same man.
Dear God, she’d found him.
It’s going to be okay, Justin.
“Misters McCormick,” he said, without moving the shotgun even fractionally, “move out of the room, if you please. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“What the hell?” the older McCormick boomed. “Jack, what are you doing?”
“Move out, Wilson. You too, Evan,” he said. “I’m not the marksman the two of you
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